


Vigilantes Belong in the Kitchen

by theplantbitch



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Female character kicks ass not just frank, Frank is his own warning, Marvel - Freeform, Pretty severe injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-11-29 10:38:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11439117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplantbitch/pseuds/theplantbitch
Summary: [Set in the events of Season 2, Episode 1 of Daredevil]Frank Castle never makes mistakes.He'd been watching the Irish for hours, waiting to strike, to rip them apart. Nothing ever slipped past his notice. But somehow, she did.Frank Castle is about to make one of the biggest mistakes of his life.





	1. The Stray Bullet

There’s a common saying about the calm before the storm. But no one ever talks about the deafening silence after the storm hits.

“There was a time when the Irish owned Hell’s Kitchen.”

The passionate, heavily accented words just barely resonate through the wall, but the loud voices in the other room certainly do make my job easier. Tracking down the Irish to their little clubhouse was no easy task. They were smart, careful, a lot more so than I had expected. Key word: were.

It had been a long night. The Kitchen was heating up more and more every passing minute, the humidity so dense you could slice through it like a knife through butter. I’d followed the bastard for hours, using their own leader to track the Irish to their home turf. Based on the amount of shit that’s happened both before Fisk and after in this city, with the decimation of so many of the gangs, the balance has flipped. Someone has to take over, and I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s bloodthirsty enough to try. 

“We had the whole bloody city at our beck and call.”

I flip through the documents as quick as I can, praying to every god I can think of that the drunken gloating in the other room doesn’t end soon. I know these assholes are planning something big – they’ve been into the drug rings before, every type under the sun, even sex trafficking – and all I need is to figure out where and when. But I’m running out of time. 

“The Russians are dead. The Chinese, they turned tail and ran, leaving the drug trade ripe for the taking.”

Sirens sound off in the distance, only adding to my sense of urgency. I quietly move around the room, going through every piece of paper and folder I can find, but I might as well be looking for a needle in a haystack. This place is a mess. And I’ve got nothing. 

“Anyone crosses us, we’ll paint the streets red with their blood…”

The tidal wave of voices in the other room only rises, intensifying by the second. I can’t be caught here. Somehow, I doubt I’d be able to fight off a whole heavily armed horde of angry Irishmen, despite my rigorous training. Then they’d know I’m on to them, just that little bit too early. I search through the last drawers, the last papers, desperately trying to find something, anything, that I can use to stop this. Just as I think my luck has run out, it turns. Their next shipment. 

“…and purge ourselves of the traitors who betrayed their own kind!”

I quickly skim my eyes over the paper, counting on my memory alone to help me. I can’t take it, easy as that would be – they’ll know their malicious operation has been compromised. And I can’t have that. Not yet.

“We’ll make Hell’s Kitchen ours again –“

Thunder.

At least, that’s what it sounds like, cutting off the speech in the other room so abruptly it’s jarring, even from in here. It takes a moment for me to compute what’s happening on the other side of the wall, but once I do I feel my stomach drop to my feet. Gunfire.

Someone’s trying to take out the Irish. And I’m in the middle of it.

Instinctively, I duck to the ground, a bullet narrowly missing my head as it tears a hole through the very wall separating me from the firefight. Every noise seems to blur together – an explosive mix of shattering glass, crumbling windows and walls, the shouts of grown men now riddled with bullet holes. Crouched behind the wall, I don’t dare move. I can’t. There must be an army out there.

The gunfire pauses for a moment, and I hear the groans and shouts of the men on the other side of the wall. Without a second thought I jump up, desperately looking for an escape. First mistake of the night, and shit, it was the worst one I could’ve made. 

A second spray of bullets, and this time they rip through the wall next to me, tearing through it like it’s just paper. I drop to the ground again, but not fast enough this time. A searing pain shoots through my leg, and I bite back a scream. This was definitely not how tonight was supposed to go.

I fall onto my back, gritting my teeth so hard they might shatter, when the gunfire suddenly stops. There it is – the deafening silence, the ringing of my ears the only sound I can perceive. In the back of my head lingers the reminder of all the dead bodies in the room next to me, but I can’t bring myself to move. I’m frozen, my mind racing too fast for any coherent thought. Then, out of the ringing comes one sound. 

Footsteps. 

A rush of adrenaline surges through every vein in my body, the sound of glass being crushed under boots echoing through my skull. There’s no way I can take on an army with that kind of power – they just took out the entire gang! – and all thought of my bullet wound and now impaired ability to fight gets shoved to the back of my head by one thought: I have to hide. 

I scramble to one of the cupboards, shutting the door behind me as quick as I can. It hurts like hell, but I manage to grab the dagger in my boot before the crunching footsteps reach the room. My breaths are shallow, and it’s a fight to remain standing at all. My thigh feels like it’s engulfed in flame. 

The footsteps get closer and closer, and even with the hazy state my head is in from the pain I know it would be too good to be true. There’s no way I’m getting out of here without a fight. 

The footsteps keep approaching, stopping just in front of the door. I squeeze the handle of the dagger with a white-knuckled grip. More sound breaks through the pain haze and ringing of my ears: the click of a gun, the turn of the doorknob. My own breathing seems as loud as a hurricane. Now or never. 

The door opens and I yell, swinging my good leg in a roundhouse kick with all the power I have. To my genuine surprise, it connects before my attacker can react, despite my bullet wound, and my assailant grunts as he falls backward onto the torn up carpet. He clutches his ribs, rising again with a grunt. Shock flickers across his features, like he’d just seen a ghost. A gruff, low rumble of a voice follows:

“What the – you ain’t supposed to be here. Who the hell are you?”

He takes a step toward me, and I point my dagger at him in warning. He nods, obviously factoring in my alarmed expression, and without another word, drops his gun. My mind is racing – why the hell hasn’t he shot me? I’ve seen his face! He takes a deep breath. “I ain’t tryna hurt you, ma’am. Now you gotta tell me what the hell you’re doing here. Who are you?”

“Who am I?!” I yell, the fiery pain in my leg making my voice explode in anger. “Who AM I? I’m the woman you just shot!” He takes another step closer, his calm expression faltering as he looks down at my leg. I haven’t looked at it properly yet, but by this man’s expression it must be pretty bad. He looks back at my face, with genuine concern. Suddenly I realise that I was wrong to think it was an army attacking, completely – it was one man. This man. And I know exactly who he is, and most likely the reason why he hasn’t shot me yet. 

A rapid feeling of dizziness hits me like a ton of bricks. “You’re losing a lot of blood,” I hear him say, but his voice sounds muffled. “How are you even still standing? Ma’am? I gotta get you to a hosp–“

“I know who you are,” I mutter, barely hearing my own voice as the edges of my vision start to fade. “You’re the…the…”

He’s running up to me now, his lips moving, but I can’t hear a thing. I feel myself falling backwards, with no way to make myself stop. One word echoes in my brain as my consciousness fades, resonating. 

Punisher. 

Then everything goes black.


	2. Nametags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who knew the big, bad Punisher could be so caring?

“Mrs Castle? Mrs Castle, are you awake?”

When I open my eyes, all I see is white. White and light. My first thought: Am I dead?

“Mrs Castle, can you hear me?”

An unfamiliar voice, yet gentle, comforting. Sort of like the voice people use when they’re trying to break bad news to you in a way that won’t make you freak out. I lift my head, my eyes moving from the ceiling to scan the blue-grey walls of the room around me. Somewhere in the back of my head I know I should be in pain right now, but I feel nothing. Guess that’s the power of drugs.

Finally, my eyes drift to the woman standing at the end of my bed, her blue uniform snapping me to attention. How the hell did I get here?

“Mrs Castle? You’re in the Metro General Hospital. Your husband’s just gone out to get coffee. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon.”

I frown in confusion, still feeling dazed. “My…husband?”

The nurse’s eyes widen a little. “Yes, your husband. Frank,” she replies very slowly. “You do remember him, don’t you?”

My mind’s buzzing, the confusion of the situation overwhelming every other emotion racing through my head. What the hell is happening?

I feign a smile, followed by an assertive nod. “Yes, yes – of course I remember my husband,” I laugh quickly, but it doesn’t sound convincing. 

The nurse – Claire, according to her nametag – just smiles sympathetically. “Mrs Castle, do you remember the events of last night?”

My brows furrow in confusion, and for a moment I fumble to catch the flashing memories of the previous night. It’s a fleeting blur, with only one fact remaining set in stone. I was shot. By the Punisher.

“It’s a little blurry,” I admit, dropping Claire’s gaze to look down at my hands, wrung tight with bewilderment. “Where did you say my husband went?”

“I’m here,” a low voice rumbles, and the nurse turns to meet it with a polite smile. At the sight of him, all my memories come rushing back – the bullets ripping the wall to shreds, the Irish being shot to hell, the way that very man had stared at my bleeding leg as if there was no worse thing in the world – everything. I hear them talking, my ‘husband’ thanking the nurse for taking care of me while he was gone, etc. – but all I can do is stare at him. He’s tall, taller than I remember, and built. Close cropped dark hair and stubble, lots of it, like he can’t quite be bothered shaving it all off. In an ordinary situation, he’d be easily one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen. Not conventionally pretty, but definitely my type. 

Too bad he shot me. 

The nurse leaves the room, and the Punisher closes the door behind her. I sit up straighter, clenching my fists, knowing it would be no use. This man is the Punisher, and I’m in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in my leg. 

He approaches me, and I do my best to stare him down, trying to be intimidating. It’s obvious that it doesn’t work, but he pulls up a chair, keeping a respectful distance. I eye him, pouring every ounce of sarcasm into my words as I speak. “So, do all the ladies believe your bullshit lines, or just the ones you don’t shoot?”

That actually seemed to hit him, hard - and to my surprise, I almost feel bad for saying it. He shakes his head, his expression actually pleading. “Ma’am, I am so sorry.”

“Did you apologise to the Irish, too? Bet they took that well,” I snap.

“You gotta believe me,” he says, leaning forward. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

“And yet you shot me anyway.”

“You weren’t supposed to be there!” his voice rises, and I can tell it takes all he has to quieten it. “I dunno how you managed to slip past me, but you did. Had I known you were anywhere near that place, let alone in it, I never would’ve shot those bastards up.”

“Prove it,” I say, leaning forward in my bed. I glare at him, wanting him to know with every ounce of my being that I am not scared of him. “How do I know you didn’t want to shoot me?”

“You’re here, aren’t ya?” he gestures the hospital room with his hands. “Why would I, the big baaaad Punisher, bring one of the people I wanted to shoot to hospital? Why would I stay here and make sure no one came to finish her off?” He meets my eyes now, challenging. “Don’t sound to me like I’d do that if I wanted to kill you, ma’am. I woulda let you rot with those Irish bastards.”

I already knew he wasn’t lying, I knew he didn’t want me dead before he even tried to convince me. But I had to be completely sure. 

“So,” I say, pulling the drip tube out of my arm, forcing back the urge to wince. “I’m getting out of here.” The bed lets out a piercing creak as I painstakingly swing my legs over it, using my momentum to stand. The Punisher – Frank – surges forward, hands on my shoulders, in an attempt to get me to sit back down. 

He shakes his head at me, voice wrought with exasperation. “What’re you doin’? You crazy or somethin’?’’

I raise my chin, looking him dead in the eye. “Move. I’m leaving.”

“No, you ain’t,” he retorts, but his hands loosen their grip on my shoulders. He’s so close to me now, close enough to make my heart beat a little faster. But I’m not backing down.

“You’re going to stop me, then?”

Irritated, he rubs the back of his head with one hand, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “Look, lady, you’ve got a bullet hole in your leg! And yeah, hell yeah I’m gonna stop you from limpin’ outta this goddamn hospital by yourself. You can bet your damn life on it!”

“My leg is fine.”

“It is not fine!” He’s shaking his head now, running both hands through his dark strands. “How can you even say that? How are you even standing up? You made of steel or somethin’?”

“Not quite,” I say, shifting more of my weight onto my good leg. “You can’t convince me not to leave. No matter what you say.” I push past him, grabbing my clothes off the chair they’d been abandoned on. My leg still kills, but I know I’ll be fine. To say I’m a fast healer is, well…an understatement.

“Then let me come with you,” he says quickly. “I won’t try to stop you, but ya gotta let me help you.”

I consider for a moment, and the pros of this seem to greatly overbalance the cons. It’ll be a lot easier with him rather than limping out by myself, carrying my bloody clothes like a beacon. And if I run into trouble, well…I’m with the Punisher. My injury isn’t going to matter much. I turn to face him, surprised once again at how pleading his expression is. 

The guilt of shooting me must be eating him alive. 

I nod, and his relief is instant. “That your real name?” I ask, jutting my chin at his nametag.

“Visitor? No,” he chuckles, clearly relieved my tirade is over. 

“Frank Castle.”

He nods, with a grin that reaches his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more domestic, cos who doesn't love Caring!Frank? 
> 
> Let me know what you think, feel free to share tips!


	3. Lithium & Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love and vigilantism - it's like lithium and water. It only causes things to blow up in your face. 
> 
> They shouldn't be mixed.

“You know, you still haven’t told me your name.”

The throbbing pain in my leg is only just beginning to die down, and it’s been at least half an hour since the big, tough man standing in front of me had argued, pled, practically begged me to take some painkillers. No amounts of “it’s fine” or “I don’t need them” or “I swear to god Castle, do you ever give up?!” made him stop, so I finally gave in. Who knew the Punisher could be so goddamn bossy?

I can’t help but smile, and I also can’t help but notice the way the corner of his mouth quirks up at my expression. “It’s Maia,” I say. “Maia Levitt.”

“Nice to meet you.” Frank replies, plonking down decisively on the chair next to me. 

The fuzzy sounds emanate from my dingy little TV, filling the new silence with incomprehensible white noise. I turn up the volume, hoping that Frank will forget what he said earlier about “leaving you in peace once you’re safe, ma’am.” The white noise gradually fades out to the semi-familiar voice of the woman who always does the 8 o’clock news.

“…and we have yet another story of heroism from our favourite man in tights, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen…”

A sound of genuine disgust leaves Frank’s lips, and the hard line of his mouth drops to a grimace as he stares at the TV. Frowning, I narrow my eyes at him. 

“You two know each other?”

“Don’t have to know him to know he’s full of shit,” he declares, taking a sip of his coffee with a small scrunch of his nose. Goddammit, I think to myself. Why does he have do that?

“…thanks to the work of this masked vigilante, authorities have been able to make several arrests in several gangs across the city involved in human, drug, and sex trafficking. By taking out their operations, our masked hero has undoubtedly saved many hundreds of lives. We can only hope our Devil of Hell’s Kitchen keeps up his good work –”

I can’t help it, I practically snort out a laugh at the anchor woman’s conviction. Now it’s Frank’s turn to be confused, turning completely in his chair to face me - brows furrowed, eyes narrowed. “You two know each other?” 

I decide to dodge that particular question, for my own sanity. Matt is the last person I want to talk about right now. 

“You wanted to know what I was doing in the clubhouse the night you shot up the Irish, right?” He nods, still confused. I point at the screen. “That.”

“Wait,” he mutters. He sits back, eyebrows raised. He glances between me, the screen, and back again. “You mean…that was you? Taking out those shipments?”

I nod. “I was spying on the Irish the night you took them out. Gathering information, so I could stop their operation. Obviously,” I say, glancing down at my heavily bandaged leg, “it didn’t go to plan.”

“So you’re telling me you’re the one who hit all those shitbags? Took out their operations?” He looks at me incredulously. “That’s insane.”

“You don’t believe me.”

Frank chuckles, glancing back at the TV. “No, no, I believe you. You kicked me hard enough to knock me on my ass with a bullet in your leg. I believe you.” His eyes don’t leave the TV, and he snorts in derision at the image of Daredevil on the screen. “I definitely didn’t believe HE was the one doin’ it, punchin’ out the bad guys in his little-boy pyjamas.”

I nod slowly, finding that I can’t quite hold back the smile that his words bring. I lie down on the couch with a sigh, the medications I was practically force-fed finally making me drowsy. My eyelids feel like lead weights, drooping more and more by the minute. But there’s something I need to know. 

“Why were you so sure it wasn’t him?” I ask. When he answers, it’s not what I expect at all. 

“’Cause he doesn’t finish the job,” Frank meets my eyes, and it takes all my willpower to keep mine open. “And I know not all of those bastards survived those hits on their shipments. You took some of them out. Permanently.”

“I only do it when I absolutely have to,” I murmur, a yawn almost blocking out my words completely. But from his expression, I know he understands. “When they make me choose between the lives of the young girls they’ve held hostage or theirs, they make the choice easy. I’ll do what I have to, to save them. I always will.”

Frank doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. My eyes are almost completely closed now, and then his low voice is much closer, a set of arms lifting me gently up off the lounge. “Come on,” he murmurs, and before I know it I’m in my bed. My eyes open slightly, and he’s pulling the covers up to my shoulders. It still surprises me, even in my exhausted state. How much he seems to care. 

“Why are you doing this? Why have you been trying so hard to keep me safe?”

He hesitates, and at first I’m not sure if he even heard my words. Then he takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. 

“I hurt you.”

“So?” I say, but my words are barely a mumble. “Vigilantes hurt people all the time.”

“I only hurt people who deserve it. I put you in danger,” his hand brushes my cheek as he fixes my pillow, and though I should know better, I can’t help but hope that wasn’t an accident. “You’re – you’re my responsibility.”

Oh. 

Responsibility. 

The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. Frank doesn’t care about me at all, not even a little bit. He just feels guilty. I guess I should’ve expected that. 

“Damn,” I say, trying to cover my disappointment with a blanket of sarcasm. “And here I thought it was my winning personality.”

He laughs, and the sound makes the corners of my lips quirk up, unstoppable in my painkiller-induced haze. “Good night, Maia.”

He leaves the room quickly, too quickly, with a sense of urgency that can only be a bad thing. I sigh, my eyes drooping shut once again, as I let the darkness overwhelm me. 

“Good night, Frank.”  
***

I wake up facing the wall, noticing for the first time a small crack in the previously seamless white paint. I roll over, only slightly surprised to find there’s almost no pain in my leg. The feeling in the back of my head that I’m forgetting something lingers, finally giving itself a name. 

Frank.

I sincerely hope that he’s still here, somewhere in the apartment, so I muster all my willpower and force myself out of bed. I let out a decisive groan – my leg still enduring a stabbing pain as I slowly saunter out into the kitchen. Surely he wouldn’t have just left.

I scan the room, trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes. It’s so overcast outside that the whole world seems dark, the streets so dim it might as well be midnight. The couch catches my eye immediately – it’s clearly been used, a blanket haphazardly folded up at the end, the pillows arranged to support a head. He must’ve slept here. But now, the room is empty.

Frank is nowhere in sight. 

I lean against the kitchen bench, crushed with disappointment. The memory of last night now feels tainted, stained by my own expectations. I internally chastise myself – what the hell was I expecting? He didn’t care about me, he made that pretty damn clear - he just saw me as something he was responsible for. Like a job he had to finish. Why the hell should he be here now?

A sudden noise from the front door breaks my thoughts, and I jump up immediately. Someone is trying to break in.

The fact that it sounds like they’re trying to break the door handle off is enough to make the pain in my leg seem to dissipate in seconds. I clench my fists so hard my knuckles whiten, fastening my hand around a kitchen knife previously left sitting on the bench. 

This isn’t the first break in I’ve had. And, living in Hell’s Kitchen, it probably won’t be the last.

I slowly move towards the front door, staying as silent as possible. Whoever it is gets the door open, and swears as they stumble through. I feel my body tense, my focus only on the intruder. He comes around the corner and I yell, slamming into the man and pushing him against the wall, knife to his throat. 

“Frank?!”

“Hi sweetheart,” he blinks, looking down at my forearm against his throat. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

I drop my arm, releasing him, shaking my head at him incredulously. “I thought you’d left for good! I also thought someone was breaking into my house,” I glare at him, heart still pounding. “What the hell were you doing?”

Frank smirks, pointing at the bag on the ground. “You had no food in your fridge, so I …went and bought some.” He bites his lip, the rest of his words following quickly. “You looked pretty out of it but I wanted to make it back before you woke up.”

I feel my jaw drop, immediately feeling guilty. “You did my grocery shopping? I didn’t know the Punisher did things like that.”

“Yeah,” he admits, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thought it would be nice, you know – since I shot you.” He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, meeting my gaze with a slight smile. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, no – not at all,” I stammer, trying to stifle the small smile forming on my lips. “How much was it? What do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about it, I got it.”

“Frank –” 

“I shot you in the leg,” he answers, picking up the bags. “The least I can do is make you breakfast.”

He brushes past me, and this time I don’t try to stop him. It’s not hard to understand that this is clearly what he needs to do, to make himself feel less guilty about what happened. I’m not going to take that away from him. 

“And Frank?”

I hear him put the food on the bench, leaning over the counter to reply. “Yeah?”

I take a deep breath, trying to make the words I want to say leave my lips. Thanks for not leaving. 

“The frypans are in the bottom left drawer.”

***

Once Frank finds the frypans the commotion in the kitchen gets much louder, the sound of pots and pans echoing through my tiny apartment. I smile to myself, when I know he’s not looking. It’s still hard to believe he came back – with food, no less. And why? Because he thought it would be nice. His reasoning. In his own words. 

God, I think. I’m such an idiot. 

Frank manages to find the plates on his own, serving up bacon and eggs with a surprising enthusiasm. 

“You sure you don’t want any money for the food?” I ask, biting into a piece of bacon. “I’d be happy to pay you back.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” he insists. “Least I could do. And the fact that you didn’t call the cops on me or anything. I did shoot you, after all.”

“Calling the cops isn’t really my style.” I grin, and to my surprise, he laughs a little at my statement. “And you really don’t have to keep doing this. I know it was an accident - I believe you, everything you’ve told me. You don’t have to keep acting like I’m your…,” the word still stings, but I finish my sentence. “Responsibility.” 

“I’m the reason you were in danger in the first place.”

“Frank.” I lean forward, locking eyes with him. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Okay, sweetheart. If you say so.”

I groan, trying to ignore his smile and the effect it has on my heart rate. I shake my head at him. “You never back down, do you?”

He cocks his head at me, the agonizingly attractive smile still playing on his lips. “Do you?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he’s teasing me now, and it takes all my willpower not to show how much it’s driving me crazy. “You mind if I have a shower?”

I huff in exasperation. “Stop calling me that. And not at all, there’s towels in the bathroom.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he teases, flashing me a cheesy grin as he walks past. Until now I didn’t know it was possible to want to punch and kiss someone at the same time. 

The sound of the shower radiates through the walls of my apartment, and I busy myself cleaning the plates, trying not to think too much about Frank Castle. I have to rip off the band-aid now – I cannot, WILL NOT form feelings for the Punisher. I can’t. The break up with Matt was hard enough, and I can’t live the life I do and have that.

Love and vigilantism – they’re like lithium and water. They only cause things to blow up in your face. They shouldn’t be mixed. 

A sudden knock at the door shatters my reverie, accompanied by a familiar voice:  
“Hey Maia, it’s Karen. I left my makeup bag in your bathroom the other night, I’m just here to pick it up. Can you let me in?”

Shit.

I can’t let her know Frank’s here. She’ll tell Matt, and then Matt will have to butt his nose into it and – oh god. Oh god. Oh shit. Not to mention that I have a freaking bullet wound in my leg – god, I don’t even want to imagine Karen’s reaction to that. I frantically race to my bedroom, blocking out the stabbing pain, trying to work out what to do. 

The bathroom. 

Without a second thought, I open the door and rush in, slamming it behind me. Frank sticks his head out from behind the shower curtain, concern flickering across his features. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“My friend’s here,” I whisper harshly. “Just be quiet and she won’t hear you.”

I hear footsteps come up to the door, followed by a loud knock. “Maia, you in there? I forgot my makeup bag the other night and it’s in your bathroom.”

“Oh, hey Karen,” I call out, hoping she didn’t hear Frank talking. “Yeah, it’s in here, I’m just taking a shower.”

“No worries,” she calls back. “I’ll just come in and get it.”

Before I can protest, the door starts opening. Without thinking, I rip open the shower curtain and jump in, frantically closing it behind me. Frank looks like he’s about to burst out laughing, and I slap a hand over his mouth with a glare. “Not a word,” I whisper.

“What’d you say?” Karen asks. I glance up at Frank’s face, fighting the urge to look anywhere else. We’re close – too close, and its effect on my ability to focus is monumental. 

“Uh, nothing. Did you find your bag?” I ask, feeling Frank’s lips move under my hand. The bastard is grinning, and doesn’t take his eyes off me the whole time. I can feel my clothes getting more and more soaked by the second, and it feels like an eternity before Karen finds her makeup bag. 

“Got it!” she exclaims. “Okay Maia, I’ll see you later. We definitely need to catch up soon.”

“Yeah sure Karen, I’ll talk to you later!” The door closes and I wait for Karen’s footsteps to fade. I vaguely hear the front door close. I glare at Frank. “Thanks for that. And for that shiteating grin the whole time.”

The shiteating grin doesn’t fade. “You sure picked a good place to hide, sweetheart.”

My glare only intensifies. “You’re a real piece of work, Castle.”

“Yeah,” he says, winking at me. “But anger suits you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's much longer than the others, but I felt like I was on a roll. As usual, let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!
> 
> (Will definitely post more chapters as this one on it's own seems a bit short).


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